Page 43 of Buried Beneath Sin

“We’re changing the plan,” I growl as a new one forms in my head. “I need to clean up. We’re going to the funeral.”

Sagan’s pupils narrow. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Work up some tears, Sagan. We’re going to be the grieving, abandoned sons that Patrick left behind.”

Sagan starts the car without any other questions. He knows that planning is my forte—if I want to shift gears, he trusts my thought process.

“I’ll call Knox and let him know to pack up his shit then meet us at Bright Starr,” I mutter, already pulling out my phone.“We’re not going back to the motel after the funeral. When we show up, it’s to move in.”

Sagan chuckles darkly. “Knox is going to be thrilled.”

21

KNOX

“Is anyone surprised they’re dead? It was only a matter of time given how they lived their lives.”

“—heard Lauren was tryin’ to whore herself out.”

“Patrick was such filth. Do you know he tried to kiss poor Candice in the parking lot one day while her husband was inside Tillman’s Groceries?”

“I thought they would look worse. Trixie really did a great job.”

“Just think how Beatrix got that talent? Fixin’ the dead up like this? It just ain’t right for a young woman to be handling such things.”

“Beatrix is so weird. She hasn’t even shed a tear this whole time. You’d think she’d spare at least a few for her own mother.”

“Can a freak love anything?”

I lean against the exterior wall of the funeral home and listen to the people of Chasm as they file out of the building. They seem lovely. I can’t wait to really involve myself inthiscommunity. I roll my eyes as a few give me curious, suspicious glances. In my jacket pocket, my phone vibrates. Pulling it out, I find a couple of messages from Thatcher.

Thatcher: I told you to have your things ready, not still thrown around the room.

Thatcher: We’re heading out soon.

Whoops, did I not pick everything up? That explains why they missed the funeral. I wish I’d known they weren’t going to make it. I wouldn’t have bothered putting on one of my nicer outfits. What a waste. I shove my phone back into my pocket.

What am I supposed to do now? I glance up at the house on the hill. I guess I could head up there and start throwing shit in trash bags. As I consider my options, the last few people leave and head to their cars. My attention falls to an older couple as they hobble to their vehicle.

“Twenty bucks says, Beatrix will be a deadbeat just like her mother in ten years,” the woman says just loud enough for me to hear as they move away.

The older man chuckles. “I give her five.”

Judging by their ages, I doubt either of them will see if their bet comes true. If Beatrix ends up a junkie like her mother, she won’t be around long. I can’t imagine the twins wanting to put up with that shit. I knowIdefinitely won’t.

I wait until they’ve pulled away to move. Rather than head up to the house, I enter Bright Starr. Since I’m here, I guess I can tell Patrick and Lauren to fuck off one last time. Overhead, a little bell chimes. It sounds like a recording as it echoes through the building.

“—come to tomorrow’s service. I know how you have some reservations about our Lord, but even if you don’t quite have faith in him just yet, just being a part of a tight-knit community might do you some good. Just because you’ve lost your family doesn’t mean you’re suddenly alone, Beatrix,” a man’s voice says, drifting from a room off to my right as I enter.

“I, um, we’ll see.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways. This may have been a blessing in disguise for you.”

Between the talk of God and the overwhelming floral aroma in here, I’m immediately put off. Moving away from the voices, I enter the room where the funeral was held. Along with the deceased, there are chairs set up in four rows of seven. Beneath them is a navy blue carpet that’s old and worn. The paint on the wall is some ugly lavender color, and the light fixtures?Gag. This room needs a whole gut job.

That’ll change soon enough. I can’t havethisrepresent me.

Laying on seats or on the floor are service programs, forgotten by the masses. Trash and crumbs roll like tumbleweeds as I walk by. Ahead of me are two simple white coffins with worn brass handles and floral details carved along the sides. When I get to the front of the room, my feet plant themselves beside Patrick Hunt’s coffin. Looking down, I peer into the face of Thatcher and Sagan’s father. He looks like a typical older white guy. With a hairline that’s drifted backward, sunspots, and thin lips, I see nothing of the twins in him. Good, because I don’t think I could get my dick up for someone even remotely as ugly as this bastard.

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